


When You Aren't Yourself, This Is Who You Are

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: Discovery, Humiliation, M/M, Undercover, boot kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-28 21:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a kink meme prompt:</p><p>"Ray loooooves Fraser's boots, to the point of scandalizing Fraser."</p><p>Ray really does love Fraser's boots, but perhaps the source of Fraser's scandalization isn't quite what one would expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Aren't Yourself, This Is Who You Are

Go undercover, Ray. Be someone else for awhile. It’s easy: no wires, no problems. Just be Vecchio while Vecchio’s being a Vegas mobster-sleazeball. Other than that, just be you only, you know, with stronger opinions against putting cheese on seafood. Got it? Got it, great, undercover pay for overcover work.

  
Oh, and about the Mountie….

  
Yeah, they always put the worst stuff in like it was an afterthought. Just like on _Columbo_.

 

 

Living in the consulate is not as bad as I’d feared. Whenever the city, the confines of the room, the sheer alienation from everyone around me, gets to be too much, I find comfort in the closet. That is to say, with my father. Closets, in general, metaphorically, are meant to be confining, to put things away neatly, to hide things in. I am comfortable with neatness, hiding, and hiding in neatness.

  
Unfortunately, as expansive as my closet might be when I need to speak with my father, it is physically just a closet, and my room is quite small. Boot maintenance requires ventilation, as I discover one night when the scent of the polish falls far short of the transcendence of the hallucinogenic. In fact, so far short that it reaches nauseating and stays there.

  
Fortunately, Ray, the new Ray, the not-Ray Ray, is perfectly happy to let me polish my boots in his apartment, the window open, a fan purposefully ready to blow my polish fumes downwind. Ray watches me as I clean my boots methodically.

  
No. He doesn’t just watch, he devours. I’ve noticed that he likes it when I do things competently, when my hands make short work of whatever is before them. His appreciation has, at times, seemed to cross the line from sensual to sexual. I accept his admiration silently, gratefully, hoping that one day he may have the courage to say what I cannot. Now, as my hands move over the leather of my boots, his eyes are intent on me, his head is cocked for the rhythmic sounds of cloth over leather, nostrils almost flared, lips parted, tongue resting on his lower lip because….Oh, dear God, he’s straining to taste something. His hands are at his sides in a way I’ve never seen before, restrained yet trembling. He wants to touch something, but won’t allow himself. I pause.

  
“Is something the matter, Ray?” I ask politely. I’ve never thought of myself as an unkind person, but as much as I want to tell myself that I cannot offer something Ray has not explicitly asked for, I am savoring the flush on his cheeks, the sharp intake of breath as he tastes my words, feels their edges for meaning.

  
“Um, you weren’t kidding about that polish,” he says weakly. And that does tip me over to cruelty.

  
“Ray,” I say gently, looking at him, savoring the embarrassment in the way his eyes dart from left to right, up to down. “Ray,” I repeat as he does not acknowledge me with words. “Ray. Ray.” I can repeat his name all night. I want to repeat his name all night.

  
“Yeah, Frase?” Ray finally says, voice near to vanishing.

  
“I haven’t opened the polish yet,” I tell him, trying to put acceptance into my voice. His desire for me, for my boots, is nearly insulting. He wants me, but he wants my boots more. I’m nearly as ashamed as he is, that I’ll take his fetish when what I want is so much more.

  
“Yeah,” he says shakily. “Look, it’s been a long day….”

  
“Ray,” I say. It’s not quite a bark, but it does have bite. He looks at me. “Why don’t you help me clean my boots?” I ask, and he shudders. “In fact,” I continue, hoping I can give him what he needs until I become what he wants, “why don’t you clean them for me.”

 

And Ray is nodding, his head bobbing gently yet emphatically, but he’s still not moving. I sigh and put the boots on, decisively lacing them. “It really works better if someone else cleans them while I’m wearing them,” I tell him as I finish, extending one leg to give its boot a critical glance.

  
And somehow that breaks the dam for him, and he’s kneeling by my feet. It seems natural that I stand up, and he falls on my boots like a man starved. It’s not all I want from him, not what I want for us, but it’s a start.

 

 

Yeah. About the Mountie. He’s like, I dunno. He’s a good guy, handsome, nice to old ladies, smart and a smartass. And he wears the uniform, like Dudley Doright, and the uniform I could take or leave (mostly leave) but the boots, Jesus, the fucking boots. I mean, how could I be what, pushing forty and not know this about myself?

  
And he wants to clean them in my apartment, and he just uses them against me, like he knows they’re my Kryptonite. And I didn’t want to throw myself at his feet, not for real like that, but I do, and I want to tell him he’s so much more to me than boots, but the boots, that’s a start. A great start, because now there’ll never be any doubt in his mind that I’m a freak, but also hopefully no doubt that I’m not his freak.

  
So, yeah, go undercover, pretend to be someone else, and find your own damn self along the way.


End file.
